Let’s set the scene.

My mother recently made an offhand comment about something from my childhood. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cruel on the surface. But the second she said it, every internal bell, siren, and neurodivergent smoke alarm in my brain went off, reverberating with the echoes of past conversations that had left me feeling invalidated.

So I took a deep breath and said, calmly,
“You know that’s because of my autism, right?”

Her response?
“Yeah, whatever…”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. Not into disagreement. Not into curiosity. Into dismissal. It was as if the words I had shared, laden with the weight of my experiences, had simply evaporated into thin air, leaving no trace or impact.

This wasn’t new. When my sister and mother were first told about my diagnosis, their reactions weren’t supportive or inquisitive. They were brushed-off acknowledgments, reflecting a lack of understanding and empathy. It felt like they viewed autism as a mere label to be checked off, akin to a phase or a convenient excuse, instead of a neurological framework that explains my entire operating system. They have only ever really seen autism in one way, the diagnosis that my nephew has. It is through a narrow lens that overlooks the complexities of my identity, and that is the way they still choose to see it.

Despite trying to initiate discussions about what autism means for me—its intricacies, challenges, and nuances—their perception remains trapped in an outdated framework. It is heart-wrenching to carry the burden of such fundamental differences in understanding, knowing that while I navigate the world through my unique perspective, they continue to view my experiences through a simplistic, one-dimensional lens. In their world, I do not have autism.

So let’s be clear.

I’m diagnosed with Level 1 Autism bordering Level 2, alongside OCD, dyslexia, and ADHD. Add PMDD, mild depression, and high anxiety, and you’ve got a brain that never clocks out. These conditions are commonly comorbid with autism, meaning they don’t exist in isolation. They stack. They echo. They amplify one another, creating a unique and complex landscape of thoughts and feelings that can be overwhelming at times. It’s like juggling multiple balls in the air while trying to keep your footing on a tightrope—one misstep can lead to a cascade of overwhelming sensations or thoughts, leaving me to navigate a maze of emotions that can feel impossible to escape.

And yes, I’m in therapy. Not because I’m broken, dramatic, or incapable, but because navigating emotions, anxiety, overstimulation, and meltdowns in a world that relies on vague social rules and unspoken expectations requires actual tools, not shame. Therapy provides me with the resources I need to understand my thoughts and feelings better, offering strategies that help me manage the intricacies of daily life. It’s a safe space to unpack the weight of my experiences, allowing me to realize that I am not alone in this journey.

Over time, I’ve learned that my neurodiversity, while challenging, is also part of what makes me who I am. Each condition brings with it its own strengths—creativity, attention to detail, and a unique perspective on the world that I cherish. And through therapy, I’m learning to embrace those strengths, recognizing that my brain might work differently, but that difference adds value to both my life and the lives of others around me.

So no.
It’s not “just me being a bitch.”

Now fast forward to another familiar conversation.

My mother says, “We always had to tell you not to tell everything you know. We used to say, ‘Don’t tell Jess; she’ll blab it all.’”

And again, my response is the same:
“You know that’s my autism, right?”

Because here’s the factual part people love to ignore.

Autism and Communication Are Fundamentally Different

Autistic communication is often direct, literal, and information-focused. Research consistently shows that autistic people:

• Struggle with implicit social rules
• Have difficulty recognizing unspoken expectations
• Rely heavily on explicit instructions and clarity
• Process language literally, not intuitively

So when someone says, “Don’t say anything,” but doesn’t specify to whom, for how long, or why, it creates a void in my understanding. My brain doesn’t magically fill in those blanks; instead, it stalls, grappling with the ambiguity. Because blanks are not information—they’re gaps that my mind struggles to bridge.

That’s not defiance.
That’s neurology.

Autistic brains are also wired to value truth, consistency, and accuracy. This intrinsic wiring leads many of us to experience intense discomfort when faced with dishonesty, half-truths, or withheld information. These situations can create cognitive dissonance, a mental struggle that disrupts our peace of mind. The longer something feels unresolved—in other words, the longer there is ambiguity or lack of clarity—the more anxiety it produces. The unspoken words weigh heavily on our minds, making it difficult to focus on anything else.

That’s why secrets can feel physically heavy. Secrets can act like an emotional anchor, preventing us from moving freely through our thoughts and day-to-day experiences. They linger in the back of our minds, constantly reminding us of the unvoiced truths that we cannot address.

That’s why gifts are torture. The moment I receive a gift, my brain is flooded with questions and urges. Why are we waiting for the right moment? The joy is right here. Why not fully embrace it and complete the experience? It feels like a disconnect between my instincts and social expectations. Delayed gratification isn’t just challenging—it’s neurologically taxing, producing an internal pressure that can be overwhelming. The anticipation becomes a source of stress, making it hard to enjoy the moment as it should be.

Our interactions, therefore, often hinge on clarity and transparency. The more information we have, the better we can navigate our surroundings and emotions, relieving the burdens of anxiety and uncertainty. In an environment where expectations are clear, we thrive, finding joy in both gifts and words, unencumbered by the weight of unfulfilled questions.

Overthinking Isn’t Drama, It’s Pattern Processing

Autistic people don’t “overthink” for fun. Our brains are constantly scanning for patterns, inconsistencies, and missing data. When information is incomplete, the system doesn’t shut down. It loops, creating a cycle of analysis that can feel overwhelming to those who don’t experience it. This filter through which we perceive the world is not a flaw, but a different way of processing information that is intrinsic to our neurodiversity.

So when people accuse me of “telling everything,” they’re missing the truth and the depth of our experience. They often don’t understand the careful calculations that go into what we choose to share or withhold. I can keep secrets. It’s not that I am incapable of discretion; on the contrary, I hold many truths close to my heart.

There are secrets I’ve carried my entire life because telling them would devastate people I love. These are not trivial matters; they are weights that I bear intentionally. In those cases, the anxiety of them knowing outweighs the anxiety of me holding it. That calculation is intentional and deliberate. It reflects not only my love for others but also my acute awareness of the impact that information can have on those around me.

What I won’t do is take responsibility for other people’s deception. It’s essential to distinguish between personal integrity and the burdens imposed by others. Here’s the reality: If I believe something is important, relevant, or necessary for someone’s autonomy, I will share it. That’s not impulsivity. That’s ethics—a commitment to truth and transparency when it matters most.

If you are hiding something from someone and it unravels because you handed me the information, that is not my burden. Autistic people are not communal vaults for other people’s secrets. We have our own experiences, emotions, and rights to share or withhold information as we see fit. This perception of being a safe keeper for others’ truths can create a profound sense of isolation.

And yet, my entire family made me feel defective for this. They positioned my honesty or need for transparency as a flaw rather than a reflection of integrity. This disconnect can lead to feelings of inadequacy and the internal struggle to reconcile who I am with the expectations placed upon me by others. It raises questions about how we perceive communication, trust, and the emotional labor involved in maintaining relationships, particularly for those of us on the spectrum.

There was a time when I thought genuinely that I too should lie about things, mind you I was not good at it, never have been. I also thought that it would be okay to take money that was just lying there in the open, on tables, in jars, seemingly without a designated purpose [mind you I was 6-8]. I still had a developing brain that was working through my parents getting divorced and my dad passing away. There was so much going on through this time-frame and my mind had trouble catching up and deciding what was needed from me.

Social Expectations Without Instructions Are a Setup

Autistic people are often punished for violating rules that were never explained. We’re expected to:

• “Just know” what’s appropriate
• Read tone shifts and social hierarchies
• Understand when honesty is welcome versus threatening
• Prioritize emotional comfort over factual accuracy

When we don’t share our truths, we’re often labeled as blunt, cold, or too much for those around us. Sometimes, the label of being malicious even gets thrown in there. These labels can stifle the urge to communicate openly and honestly, creating barriers in relationships that might otherwise flourish through transparency.

I could never quite wrap my head around why just telling the truth could ignite such anger in people. There’s a curious contradiction in society; we often herald honesty as a virtue, yet when faced with it, many react defensively. Instead of appreciating the clarity that comes with transparency, they might choose to cut ties or actively exclude those who simply dared to speak openly. I have often found myself as the outsider, observing how others alter the rules mid-game to suit their narratives, only to redirect blame towards me for the ensuing chaos.

Navigating these experiences has forced me to confront many hard truths—both my own and those of others. It’s not an easy path, but each painful interaction has taught me valuable lessons about vulnerability and communication. I’ve learned that delivering honesty requires a certain level of empathy and care, ensuring that my words are not just direct but also thoughtfully expressed. I recognize that the impact of my honesty can vary greatly depending on how it’s received.

However, despite the nuances in how I convey my messages, I stand firm in my belief that I will not apologize for being direct. Authenticity is a vital aspect of who I am, and while I strive to communicate with compassion, I will always prioritize the importance of being truthful. In a world crowded with half-truths and deceit, embracing honesty—my honesty—becomes an act of courage, regardless of the potential backlash. It’s essential to cultivate environments where truth is not only accepted but embraced, allowing for genuine connections to form in the process.

A Real-Time Example of This Miscommunication

Here’s a recent example that perfectly illustrates how this plays out in real life.

I asked my sister if she needed help setting up for her wedding. She said no. She had spent the day with a friend who does that kind of thing, and they felt they had everything handled.

Cool. Answer received. No follow-up needed.

Later, I relayed this information to my mother over the phone. That day, I didn’t have the energy to mask. Not my tone. Not my pitch. Not my emotional delivery. I was relaxed, calm, and comfortable.

Every time I do this, my mother assumes something is wrong.

“You sound upset.”
“You sound hurt.”
“You sound disappointed.”

I wasn’t.

She perceived my neutral, unmasked tone as emotional distress. This is a textbook example of the Double Empathy Problem, where autistic and neurotypical people misread each other’s emotional cues. The issue isn’t a lack of empathy. It’s a mismatch in communication styles.

I tried to explain:
“Look, I’m fine with it. It actually means one less thing for me to do that day.”

She said, “You sound upset.”

At that point, I took a deep breath. I wanted to say, I wasn’t, but I am now. Instead, I clarified again:

“Nope. Just clarifying. I don’t mind if she has someone else helping. I already have a lot to do that day.”

And I do.

That day includes:

• 11 hours of driving
• Taking wedding photos
• Navigating unfamiliar social interactions
• Managing my mother
• Driving through ATL traffic
• Visiting my hometown, which is a major anxiety trigger for me

The truth is simple:
I didn’t care. I wasn’t hurt. I was relieved.

But no matter how clearly I stated that, I couldn’t make my mother believe me. My tone didn’t match her expectation of how “fine” is supposed to sound.

This Is Why I Mask

This is why I mask on phone calls and in person with people who don’t live with me.

Masking means adjusting tone, pitch, and facial expression. It means adding emotional cues that don’t naturally exist. It involves carefully constructing my responses to fit the expectations of those around me, suppressing my true feelings to create a more palatable interaction. The process requires a level of mental gymnastics, where I must constantly monitor my behavior and adjust it to align with social norms.

It means managing other people’s comfort at the expense of my own energy. While I do this to foster better communication and avoid awkwardness, it often results in a profound sense of fatigue. Each conversation becomes a performance, leaving me drained and disconnected from my authentic self.

Masking prevents conflict. By appearing more agreeable, friendly, or enthusiastic than I feel, I can navigate social situations that might otherwise lead to misunderstandings or disputes. It smooths over potential friction, ensuring that interactions are pleasant, even if they feel insincere. In this way, masking serves as a protective barrier, shielding me from confrontation and judgment.

But it is exhausting. The mental load of constantly portraying an alternate version of myself can be overwhelming. Each social encounter feels like climbing a steep hill, requiring effort that often leaves me reeling afterward. I find myself needing quiet times alone to recharge, to peel back the layers of my persona and reconnect with who I truly am.

When I don’t mask, I’m misunderstood. My genuine reactions can be misread, leading others to interpret them in ways I never intended. This lack of understanding can create awkward moments or even hurt feelings, which is why I often resort back to masking, even when it feels burdensome.

When I do mask, I’m depleted. The energy spent on maintaining this facade often means I return home feeling hollow, despite having successfully navigated social situations. The contrast between my internal experience and outward expression creates a dissonance that lingers long after the interaction has ended, making it difficult to engage with my own emotions fully. As a result, I constantly grapple with the balance between authenticity and the desire to be accepted, leading to an ongoing internal struggle that feels both isolating and exhausting.

Growth Doesn’t Erase Autism

Over the years, I’ve become a strong communicator, thanks to the support of my husband, my kids, and jobs that forced me to learn how neurotypical people prefer information delivered. I’ve also learned a lot about patience and compassion toward myself as I navigate the complexities of communication and expression.

But growth does not cancel autism. This is a crucial point that often gets overlooked. People assume that if someone is growing or thriving in some aspects of their life, their neurodivergent traits become less significant, as if the progress somehow overshadows the innate qualities that come with autism. This misunderstanding can lead to frustration and miscommunication, particularly with my family.

With my family, it has always been harder to discuss my experiences. They tend to only recognize autism when it fits their narrow idea of what it should look like. Anything outside that frame gets dismissed as personality flaws, leaving little room for understanding or empathy. This creates a challenging dynamic where I often feel misunderstood and undervalued.

So I’ll ask again: AITA… or is it Autism? This question lingers heavily, prompting me to reflect on the interactions and reactions I face daily. It’s not just about being right or wrong; it is about the underlying struggle to have my authentic self acknowledged and accepted without judgment.

And maybe the better question is why neurodivergent honesty is only acceptable when it’s convenient for everyone else. Why is there a need to conform to a specific narrative of autism? Why do some people celebrate neurodiversity only when it aligns with their own values? It leads to a feeling of alienation and a longing for genuine acceptance, rather than a conditional kind of recognition based on what others see as appropriate or fitting. It’s crucial for all of us to create a space for diverse expressions of neurodiversity, embracing the rich tapestry of experiences and perspectives that exist beyond societal norms.

Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B 🖤✨